


If

by Yrreb Yaj (chubsTheGreat)



Category: B.A.P
Genre: Am 4:44, Badman MV, Emotional Manipulation, Gen, Revolution, Skydive MV, Wake Me Up Mv
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-21 11:30:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13739946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chubsTheGreat/pseuds/Yrreb%20Yaj
Summary: Trust no one.That's his motto; it keeps the natural order stable.





	1. An Introduction

_Heavy shoulders slump low, the weight of the world upon them. Scarred beyond belief, yet clear as a morning lake; the pain lies far deeper than the world chooses to believe. Just as the bearer of these marks burrows behind a terrifying mask, the world itself hides behind the shield that was meant to protect someone from them. Because if we turn a blind eye every now and again, then surely we cannot be to blame - we cannot take responsibility, when we knew nothing of what was happening._

_A passion that once burned bright enough to light a thousand lives with just one spark; an imagination so wild, so free, that it knew no limits; a hope that pulsed stronger every time it was beaten, all sputter and die. In these halls, where empty cheers echo, none survive. Death itself is beaten, in this great chamber where immortals come to die. Time ceases to exist. It doesn't slow down, doesn't die, it simply - doesn't._

_Sometimes, when we're lucky, they come. One at a time, the stragglers tumble in; those who refuse to give in. They insist on running, trying harder and harder, but Fate takes its cruel hand and twists, until everything is as it should be. Ambition - or what they once called that which fueled them to struggle closer to their destinies - turns to guilt and a feeling of inferiority. Nothing remains, and nothing else matters._

_And if you were to witness these occurences, perhaps you would feel a stirring inside your chest. Perhaps it would feel uncomfortable, or maybe you might be numb by this point. You've seen more than you realise, and a hardened shell has become neccessary - how else would you survive?_


	2. A Misconception

Sometimes you wonder if this was all you were destined for as the reality of life rises and blocks your throat. Maybe the card that life threw at you isn't really right, not when the smallest of things elicits judgement from those who really aren't ones to judge.

  
For as a humble man once said, let he who is without sin, cast the first stone. You, too, find it difficult to abide by these words, preferring instead to halt all forms of communication. Far less likely are you to judge, if you know nothing of what is happening.

  
No man is an island, and yet you are an entire continent, planet, constellation, unmapped and undiscovered - undisturbed.

  
As you sit alone, words pour through your heart and run free, cascading over limbs and joints. In their wake, they leave only an illusion of serenity, and yet they are worth so little. These words go unspoken in your fear of them being spoken with reverence, false idols taking misshapen shape before your unwilling eyes.

  
Perhaps if you had stayed, you might have become like them. You might have mindlessly worshipped a worthless way without questioning. You might have done as they do even now, wishing to chase after money and fame, unaware that it's never enough. And you would have ended up with letters, more than you can count, but not a single one is filled with anything other than trash.

  
Your cry of "Go away!" echoes over empty halls and great chambers, but the world does not permit you a ceasefire. It turns relentlessly.

 

And so instead, you might choose to turn this uncomfortable tightening into something else. It takes the shape of a photograph, the underside of which hides letters to reveal an undesirable truth.

From the shadows, you watch as the panic sets in. Today is one of those lucky days, when a haggard soul enters into these empty halls. He brings with him a sense of despair and a stench of rebellion - and something that has never made it into this pit before.

Life.

Somehow, he is very much alive. His soul seems to have distanced itself from his body, and has made it here, in a fit of desparation. If one squints, a faint glimpse of his physical form materialises.

Lights, too bright and invading an already stuffy head. The stench of alcohol and sweat, paired with a bass line that reeks of un-originality - it's clear that he's in a bar. In his hands lies a photograph depicting a woman. So abused is she that if it were not for her face, which is unharmed, she would be unrecognisable. As it is, our lost soul clearly does recognise her. 

The photograph in his hands begins to shake as his hands struggle to keep still, and it slips through his fingers to it land on the bar. A tear forms and fights its way past his eyelids to fall from his eye. Time seems to slow, as the drop falls, falls, falls. At last, just before it touches the photograph, time and order are restored. With a soundless splash, the tear lands on the reverse of the photograph.

Where the drop has landed, a splodge of ink is visible. Shocked, the man looks around to see if anyone has noticed. Upon deciding he has not been discovered, he crumples the photograph tightly in his fist and stumbles, still slightly inebriated, towards the door. Rain harshly caresses his face, soaking his hair and clothes in a matter of seconds. You, too, are drenched.

The man pays no attention to his sopping exterior; the rain has painted a glorious picture.

"She's dead."

 You can see that life does not pause, that the world does not permit a ceasefire - and yet it's plain that his world is not the same. Perhaps it spins too quickly, or perhaps it spins in reverse, perhaps it does not spin at all - it is not your place to question. Maybe you would pity him, perhaps you do, but -

In a daze, the man stumbles away from the bar's entrance, dropping the photograph as if it had burned him. Heavy rain masks the approaching figure who stoops down to swiftly pinch the photo gingerly between thumb and forefinger.

A hand settles on heavy shoulders, comforting and understanding. You understand.

A firm push, gentle but suggestive, and he is animated once more. A manic light colours his eyes as he lurches unsettledly further from the now distant bar. His feet lead him into a maze of alleyways, dizzy streets turning and twisting. 

After countless stumbles and falls, a destination all of a sudden shines crystal clear. He stands at a crossroad, completely rain-soaked, illuminated by the light of the moon alone. A shadow - his? yours? - spills across the cobbled path and comes to a halt next to a conveniently sized dark mass. The rain is once again forgotten as he crouches over the body.

A frozen face stares unseeingly into the dark cover of night, unaware of the crumbling figure above it. A sob is barely muffled from the man as he falls apart, hiding in the rain.

Even as day breaks, even when the sky clears and not a single drop can be found, he remains.

No doubt he would stay there, meet the same fate. After all, his soul is already with us, and the life ebbs from it with every passing second.

Somehow, they find him. Later, they'll tell him that he'd wandered into their territory. An angular face peers far too close for his liking, before hauling him roughly up. Fist grabbing the front of his sopping - whether from tears or rain is anyone's guess - shirt, he inspects the other's face closely, shoving him against the wall.

Conversation is brief and rather one-sided. They are to take him in as a hostage-cum-temporary gang member. He would disagree, but the glint of a knife and the incessant clicking of a lighter are enough to silence him. The lone wolf lifestyle has always suited him, but no doubt this will not be permanent. A few months in which he can prove his worth and then he'll be gone. To where, he is not sure. A new city, perhaps - he could do with the space to breathe, to forget. For now, this will have to do.

* * *

 

He keeps up a wall, does not intend to let them close. They appear to be of a similar mind, and yet it is only possible to maintain so much privacy when living in such close quarters.

He learns that they all have quirks; the leader scolds the younger members, his angular features arranging into a frown, in a way that wouldn't seem odd coming from a mother to her children. He cares too much.

He learns that the oldest has a habit of tapping out rhythms with his lighter when stressed or deep in thought; he is meticulous and pays attention to detail. He cares in an unconventional way.

He learns that the one seemingly closest to him in age is the brains of the operation. He has a favourite, being overly generous to their youngest member. He cares far too much for him; whether the same can be said towards the others is unknown.

He learns that the youngest, a baby-faced teen, has a tendency to blink when he spaces out, and that he relies on others. He is too trusting.

He learns that the enigma reveals nothing. A flash of blue hair and a mass of tattoos should say something about who he is, but he is no closer to understanding. All he knows is that the only one he will answer to is his leader; in the bitterest, most scornful way possible. It is impossible to discern, but perhaps he cares too little.

And as for the newcomer, he knows that each little piece of information is dangerous; with every little secret, he is becoming more and more a part of the gang. Try as he might, he is becoming intricated into their complicted dynamics, being woven into their complex histories.

Keeping himself to himself is his only option; he understands that it is survival of the fittest.

And if the gang notice his lack of enthusiasm and trust in them, they don't bring it up. 

But by now it's been several months more than he'd expected. You watch in silence. They are ensnaring him, trapping him in their web and pulling him unwillingly closer. Only when he paints an image of them like this can he convince himself to keep his distance; they are far too human for his liking.

If he was to think about it, he supposes it was inevitable. By now, he knows their routines inside and out, knows where tensions lie and where relationships are rocky. It was only to be expected that they'd bring him on a mission; he'd waited long enough.

Their previous missions had consisted of a four person team; they would take it in turns to stay at the den and guard him. Now they trusted him enough to allow him to leave, as long as he promised to return. They placed far too much trust in him, he decided. Today, the leader had announced that he would join them on their mission. A glimpse of blue hair disappearing through a slamming door suggested that at least one member was unhappy with the desicion, but there was litle he could do. The leaders word was final.

The thought of a mission after so long sends a thrill through him, but the idea of their trust in him sickens him. Nervous, he had spent the best part of the morning pacing backwards and forwards in his allotted room. That did little to alleviate his nerves, and so he steps outside.

He is barely aware of his feet carrying him until he stops by a large tree. He had had no money, nothing to call his, and so he'd been unable to afford a coffin. That was probably for the better; when he finally returned to the spot, it was empty. Instead, he had found the largest area of soil he could, beneath this large tree, and had planted a bulb. It was his way of saying goodbye, and it had become a sacred place in his mind.

It's some time in the late afternoon when he opens his eyes, having accidentally fallen asleep. Realising that he is most certainly late, and for his first mission no less, he pats the bulge of his gun, and sprints towards the abandoned aircraft hangar he'd been told that they would meet at.

Nearing the building, he slows his pace, so as not to appear out of breath upon arrival. Around the side, he finds a large entrance, and slips in quietly. Just as he is about to round the corner, he hears a muffled sound from inside the room; something feels wrong. Choosing to trust his intuition, he ducks behind the wall. From his crouch, he can't quite see into the hangar. If he angles his head just a little further forward...

Inside the room they stand, guns drawn. A pout forms on the mans face at the though of missing some of the action. Then he realises that some have their hands held high - surrender? Two to one they stand, outnumbered. In the shock of the moment, he draws his own gun.

This time, the world does not pause, not even for an unknown soldier. Taken by surprise, more lives are claimed, as you observe the scene motionlessly. Into action springs the gang, blurs of speed with a ruthless intent to to kill. Even after having walked straight into a set-up, they are undeterred.

And yet, there has been a shift. No doubt they can feel it; our man can sense it; even you are aware. Some of them take defensive stances, chest to chest again one another as they wildly shoot, and it becomes almost painful to see how they continue to blindly trust eachother. 

Distracted by thoughts of betrayal, the matter at hand seems trivial; but you haven't forgotten. An involuntary twitch of your fingers and a repressed shudder; you have become far too excited. A cry of anguish, however, jolts the hangar back to reality. Blood flows, an eternal fountain, from the young man. Glinting in the dim light, his bleached hair cries of innocence, even as it's stained a deep crimson. Somewhere in the depths of your stomach, a by now familiar tightening can be felt, more uncomfortable than the last. As the final life sputters from the boy, the man who is not supposed to care, who has to remind himself that he does not care, fumbles for a second with the trigger.

No ceasefire, no pause in time, nothing.

Perhaps it's for the better. After all, the time required to heal a wound like this, the time needed to mourn; it's a number too large to be of use. 

Perhaps the simple act of mourning, day in, day out, for eternity, will avenge him.

For the time being, however, the show must go on. To best avenge him, they must continue to fight, and so they do, with renewed vigour.

However, more than one of the gang is visibly shaken by the occurrence, and their performance begins to slip as they berate and chide themselves. 

Another blood-curdling cry, and you struggle to restrain yourself. Not far from the body of the first fallen angel, his protector lies at too awkward an angle, destined to meet the same fate. The blood does not flow from him like it did his friend; rather, the way his neck twists in a cruelly beautiful manner suggests the cause of his death. No colour decorates this body, only a small sliver of bone protruding from his neck catches the light. There is no hope for him, and as this occurs to our man, his vice-hard grip on his gun tightens a little more.

 He sneaks behind a pillar; from here, he can see most of the room, and the combat. A scuffle, only a few metres away from him, reveals that the leader has somehow been disarmed. Undeterred, he is fighting hand to hand, and holding up surprisingly well. What he doesn't notice is that his opponent still holds a weapon. The man in the shadows notices this and in an attempt to warn the leader, attracts the attention of his attacker.

The crack of a bullet resounds through the great chamber, as the leader falls. Back arched and head thrown back, he resembles a beautiful dancer, right up until his body crumples. The man is there to catch him, but to no avail. The dancer will not dance again. Blood that is not his paints his body in a myriad scarlets and crimsons. As the man cradles the listless body, it is not until the sounds of the fight are blanketed by a hot, white noise that it occurs to him. 

There is a point where a man's spine meets his skull; one shot here, and he'd feel nothing. He wouldn't even quiver.

At the top of the man's spine, just where it meets his skull, the blood flows unrelentlessly. This is the culprit; but where is he? His opponent had been facing the man when the fatal shot occurred. So how then did a bullet manage to land itself in that exact spot?

Glancing around the hangar, a spark of light catches his attention. Creeping over to it, he realises it's a lighter. Even now, the man incessantly clicks it, staring with unseeing eyes at the hesitant flame. Our man is about to reach out to him, when a flicker of blue catches his eye. So close to the lighter lies the lifeless body of a restless fighter. Unable to believe his eyes, the man averts his gaze; a sense of guilt washes over him, quickly quashed. Once again, your stomach clenches tight.

The lighters rhythm begins to slow down, and the two men look eachother deep in the eyes. Conversation seems unnecessary; they speak without words, tell of unimaginable guilt. An uncomfortable conclusion is reached, and the man bows his head low in respect, before rising to his feet and turning his eyes away. A little slow is he in his movement though, and he sees the gun raise to his temple.

Looking away is really only a matter of courtesy; the ringing crash of a shot that rolls up the hills and rolls down again paints a blatantly uncensored image in his mind, in your mind. 

Hanging his head, the man dedicates the silence to five deceased souls; but the moment cannot last, he cannot rest. He bends down to remove the lighter from tightly clenched fingers and pockets it, a comforting memoir. Paranoia sets in, and he begins to count the bodies.

He makes it to fourteen, a seemingly satisfying answer, when he realises that there is a John Doe.

Frantically recounting, he reaches the number again, and again. How can he have miss-

He'd forgotten his blind spot. Turning slowly on his heel, he is greeted with a smirking face and a glint of azure. Of course he'd survived.

He is clearly not one for formalities, as he opts to skip the dialogue and instead draw his gun, pointing it at the man. Cobalt hair glistens, splattered with tiny droplets of blood, a stark contrast to the monochrome tattoos he bears. From his leer, it becomes obvious. 

He betrayed them, he set them up - he shot the leader. Power leads to corruption, and greed has tainted him. All this, just to gain leadership - over a group of dead fools.

"Why?" The word echoes around the hangar so devoid of life, bearing the weight of so many lost souls. 

A wider sneer.

"Isn't it obvious?" He clearly isn't one for dramatics.

 "You shot him, you - shot your - your own leader. Yet at the same time, you spared him?" It is a statement, but it bears great question.

His smirk turns to a glower. Choosing not to answer, he puts his finger on the trigger. One, two -

"You care. I thought of all of them, you cared the least. But I was wrong. You care the most."

He is infuriated, and decides enough time has been wasted.

 With a final grin, he squeezes the trigger, tight. It's quick, and he doesn't look back as the bullet penetrates the man's clothes and comes to an abrupt halt. The force of the shot knocks him down, and all of his breath is knocked out of him. The world begins to fade to black, and the sound of retreating footsteps is the only sound that penetrates this white noise. You brush your fingers gently over his eyelids, closing them tightly.

* * *

 Cracking one eye open, he can see no movement. Lifting his shirt, he grins to himself. Sure, his Kevlar vest had taken a bullet, but he'd survived. He's outlived them all, those trusting fools. In this game, you can rely on none - that's why a figure decorated in kills walks away unscathed.

Speaking of whom, the man springs to his feet, patting the bulge of his gun, and the figure is still in sight. Tiptoeing the final few metres, he draws his gun, and when he's close enough, he grabs the man into a headlock. Gun aimed at the side of his head, it's his turn to smirk.

"Not so cocky now, are we?" He's always loved the little extra snippets of dialogue, choosing to play with his targets a little.

"H-how?" the man manages to choke out through his damaged pride.

"Oh, the same way as you, darling. Although I doubt you'll have noticed, but I took the liberty of switching our vests; mine had a little hole in, roundabout - here?" He moves the gun from the side of his head to trace along his chest, coming to rest just above his heart, where a scratch can indeed be felt. "Only a minor malfunction, you see, but I couldn't risk that now, could I?"

A wad of spit flies into his face, and he tuts.

"Manners, manners! Anyway, I think your impudence is rather ill-fitting, don't you? Don't worry, you'll see your beloved members soon enough!" With this, he pulls the trigger and feels the body collapse into his arms. Blood bubbles at the edge of his mouth, but the man does not care. Now that they're all dead, he can finally drop the act. He sinks to the ground and hunches over the unresponsive body. Over the body, he falls apart.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Summer is drawing to a close, and the sun sets tonight over a man who stands underneath a tree. A sickly looking plant withers beneath his scathing gaze.

It's been a year. Six months have passed since he became independent again. He'd always thought that he'd feel a sense of freedom when he was rid of them, but instead he felt vulnerable.

So the past few months he's being doing something a little different. The man with the lighter - he had had a name, and the man had learnt it, but somewhere along the way it had been forgotten - had had some interesting thoughts. He's been working on something recently that the man had mentioned a lot. Their youngest member had only just turned 20, and he'd been involved in their missions since he was 16 years old. The man was unhappy that he'd ended up in their way of life, and wished that other children would not have to turn to the gang life to provide for themselves, or even to survive. 

Another idea the man had planted in his head was about derailing the hierarchy; he'd clearly never been a fan, and now our man thought he owed them something.

So, although way out of his comfort zone, the man decides to combine these two. There are many children to be found on these dangerous streets; the younger they are, the easier they are to find. On occasion, they even find him first - word spreads fast and he's now built up a reputation - and they're desperate. Streets like these are no place for a child.

Over the months, his reputation and resources have earned him a sizeable army. Having claimed all of the gang's properties, he's able to provide for all of these lost souls. Recently, he installed a teacher, and they've proved very successful. In fact, the children are doing exceedingly well. Somewhere along the way he's coined a nickname for himself - Fagin. He tells the children that Fagin was a character - a hero! - in old English folklore, who did just as he himself does now, taking in little children like themselves called Dodgers. And so they go out in his name and forge a reputation for themselves as the Dodgers.

As for the other part of his payment, he's been investigating. His children all come from different backgrounds, from all over the city, but their tales of woe often share one detail.

 

Imagine a world which is bleak, in which the word 'future' merely means the long stretch in front of you, and the prospect of living to twenty-five is laughable.

Imagine that even though you are a man used to routine, nothing prepares you for the tragedy that some call Day.

Imagine that you are a mindless, worthless minion, amongst a million other bland, commonplace puppets - perhaps this one is not so difficult to imagine.

Freedom is a word that is beaten to death, sentenced to rot in an empty hall far away from here.

 A whisper blows through these halls, bringing with it the unmistakable, revolting scent of rebellion.

Perhaps you had forgotten, but this man who seems of the utmost importance; he is still here. He remains in limbo, his body in a solid form, his soul still resisting. This is the source of the small spark, the cause of these cries of uprising. All you have to do is wait.

 

An inferno burns, completely out of control. The only requirement is fuel, and that is plentiful; wooden puppets and flammable words are readily available. And now, he has a whole army who are eager to listen, willing to fight. After all, if a few lives are lost, who's really counting? It _is_ all for the greater good.

And so he begins to plan. He is meticulous and pays attention to detail; he has to do so, there is no other way. The Dodgers notice that he has become more absent as of late; his presence feels only physical, and they wonder if anyone is home. It appears that he is perhaps trying to fill a mould that is entirely the wrong shape; the click of a lighter between tense fingers suggests unease. But he is too far away to notice concern - time is ticking.

Tick.

The Mayor announces plans to renovate the abandoned streets.

Tock.

People are placed in positions of power; clueless civilians dictating the people.

Tick.

A reporter for the city's main news station recieves a tip about a protest.

Tock.

Rumours of a pied piper infiltrate the nervous city as countless children go missing.

Tick.

The Mayor is replaced by a steel man who bends to the will of none.

Tock.

Lockdowns begin in the local schools.

Tick.

Mandatory attendance to the Mayor's speeches.

Tock.

Small fires in the homes of politicians.

Tick.

Damage to local businesses known to support right-wing politics.

Tock.

Police brutality.

Tick.

Abuse of power.

Tock.

Fear in the people.

Tick.

Silence, as an entire city holds its breath. The flashes of cameras are the only light in this dark evening. Every television, every radio, every computer - they all show the same thing.

On the roof of the old town hall, a solitary figure steps out. Hood drawn over its head, it bears a torch which casts dreadful shadows over the buildings. 

A placard is raised. It reads,

"Return the power to the people."

Whispers of frantic newsreporters echo across the courtyard, elevating nerves. Amongst them, names stand out, all wishing to portray the figure as they percieve.

A minute passes, drenched in anticipation and adrenaline. 

Tick.

The torch is raised high.

Tock.

A man steps forward to greet the crowd. A hiss echoes from above as he assures the crowd that he will not step down.

The hood is thrown back to reveal a young man. 

"Oh, Mr Puppet!" He taunts. "We all know that this is just a show. Why don't you introduce us to your maker?"

Desperate tongues move faster, as if they will swallow these lies.

The Mayor turns his back on the roof.

The torch is thrown to the man's feet and he steps on the flame. All of a sudden, a terrible sound can be heard; a war cry sung in childish voices.

Then they come.

Out of the doors of the surrounding buildings they tumble; materialising from the narrow alleyways; spilling out of every nook and cranny, they charge as one.

From the roof, the man conducts the chaos. The reporters shout faster and faster, as the crowd scream. In the midst of the crush, you spot the Mayor drowning in a sea of children.

The clamour does not calm for many hours, and the fires continue burning even longer. Whilst they restore justice down below, the man on the roof allows himself to be consumed by flames. In a great chamber somewhere a long way away, a soul awaits justice. These empty halls have long awaited his return.

And now it is time for you, too, to return.

The sounds of earthly chaos fade to a symphony in your ears. With a twist of your fingers, they are silenced.

Order is restored once more.

**Author's Note:**

> This may seem like it has little/no connection to B.A.P. But it does.  
> I've tried to input the lyrics of Yongguk's "Am 4:44" into the introduction, and the plot is loosely based off the Skydive, Badman and Wake Me Up Music Videos.  
> i've been experimenting so i thought it would be fun to write this. hopefully you took something away from it even if you didn't enjoy.


End file.
